moment.um

The first time I remember a fancy party, I remember I danced. A boy asked my dad if he could dance with me, and my dad told him to ask me. I said yes, and we made the shape of a sunburst on a hardwood floor with our feet, waddling purposefully to the music with adults towering over us. Looking up, I saw tall women with simple earrings and their bouncing hair tethered by pins. The boy ran away when he was older. He used a new name. His parents split and they had a tough time understanding him, and he hid on the other side of the country. He runs and runs and runs and runs and runs and I want to learn the words he would pick to describe how running makes him feel. His animation, his welling up. I pray his bones are thrust into forward form by joy and by knowing how much love his father showed him when he flew out to one of the marathons. I pray that it doesn't stop or still, chilled by doubt, regret, or anxiety. I pray that they fill each other with warmth, that the perception of unlovableness is set aside for the thawing, stretching, moving, pressing on of love.